


Twelve Weeks

by epaynter



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Pre-Canon, Vaguely Canon-compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:28:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24812335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epaynter/pseuds/epaynter
Summary: Twelve weeks since Jane had shuffled his way into the CBI in a crumpled shirt and lost expression, too exhausted to be guarded, falling into the platonic care of an intense Chicago-born CBI agent. The world has shifted more under his feet in the last eighty or so days than he ever thought it could.
Relationships: Patrick Jane/Teresa Lisbon
Comments: 8
Kudos: 43





	Twelve Weeks

Twelve weeks.

Twelve weeks since he had shuffled his way into the California Bureau of Investigation in a crumpled shirt and lost expression, too exhausted to be guarded, falling into the platonic care of an intense Chicago-born CBI agent. The world has shifted more under his feet in the last eighty or so days than he ever thought it could.

Time is a strange thing too nowadays. There are memories that linger- he tries to collect them as they pass his subconscious mind, tucking forgotten arguments into drawers stained with blood ( _his memory palace is a function, the details in the interior design is merely a product of his own guilt_ ), missed events accompanied by apologetic half-truths carved into the bedposts, consequences in the form of distant expressions over his selfish actions perched as framed pictures on the window sill.

After the day they died ( _he says the day they died as if a part of himself didn’t die along with them- it did. It just complicates things less this way_ ), he formed very few new memories surrounded by white walls, nothing would stick. Instead, his mind was akin to a record player. Haunted by the same images, the same smell, the same horror until it fizzled into static.

Twelve weeks after meeting Teresa Lisbon and new memories- and not just recollection but genuine, _significant_ memories- he finds himself capturing in the palms of his hands and placing them in a tattered palace room ( _under construction until he can slowly quantify her - there is something about her that commands his attention and he knows already she will need her own tent_ ) to revisit each one later.

Right now, he is beside her, sitting in the passenger seat with the window down and the afternoon sun prickling at his outstretched arm.

( _For someone so interlaced with honesty and selflessness, the appearance of transparency, she is far more complex in details. He likes both of these aspects about her but the combination of the two is wonderfully stimulating. When was the last time he had felt_ _life_ _in human interaction? It must have been some time before Red John. Ch- his daughter’s birthday party? The persistent, overwhelming nausea that would inevitably come with this train of thought isn’t worth the venture._ )

Her hair has grown over the last twelve weeks, he has noticed. The cropped, contained look he remembers when he first saw her is lost to a softer, longer length. Lisbon has it up in what must be one of the world’s smallest ponytails currently- there are many small strands around her forehead, neck, and ears that are free, fluttering in the hot breeze tunnelling through her half-open window and escaping through his. She is tilting her neck to survey the street for the second time in the last two minutes. He observed the angles of her face with a muted awe. Polished, sharp- a sort of understated allure. There is no feigned innocence in her subconscious actions, no typical feminine influences in her childhood. It isn’t the stereotypical appeal to most- Teresa Lisbon is no damsel.

"What?"

She is looking at him. _Eh_ , maybe more like squinting actually.

( _He is smiling. He probably shouldn’t be smiling._ )

"What?" He parrots and raises his eyebrows dramatically.

"Why are you staring at me?"

A mix of intrigue and hot weather crankiness makes for an impatient tone but Jane can tell she isn’t genuinely frustrated. She had the patience of… well, the patience of a person who raised three younger brothers to be exact.

"I find you fascinating, Lisbon. Does it bother you?" He asks.

She falters for a moment, the slightest hint of surprise mixed with an unidentifiable warmth, "Uh-"

"Because I can stop if it bothers you," He grins- he makes it cheeky and light.

( _He is trying to shift the meaning of his words, an instinctive backpedal - make them careless, flippant, teasing. She is his friend. He has never had a friend like her before. The kind of friend you spend over half every single day with; sitting in parked cars, looming over dead bodies, eating every meal together, saying goodnight to each other. There is domesticity in their routine which means very little distance. He needs her at a distance even if he has to create it himself._ )

She rolls her eyes.

"Not at all, stare away," She retorts offhandedly, "But if you think I want to know anything further on why I’m fascinating, I don’t."

 _Not entirely the truth_. He shrugs.

"Okay."

"Okay."

He looks ahead, pulling his extended arm back into the vehicle. The pavement is shimmering and the grass waxy from the cloudless, burning hot day. His skin tingles in the aftermath and sneaks a glance back in her direction.

A smile as she turns to survey the area once more, soft and comfortable. He closes his eyes.

( _Warm white paint with lightwood floorboards. A single brick wall as an accent. It suits her in his mind- his memory palace may be a carnival, but each tent is its own world of memories, the inside has no bearing on the exterior nomadic appearance. He finds his couch there, as he wanders in, most of the mental space still bare. He sets a picture of that small smile- the small strands of hair curling near her skin, green eyes vibrant in the natural light, cheeks slightly flushed from the heat on an end table beside it._ )

"I changed my mind. Tell me."

"Tell you what?"

" _Jane._ "

**Author's Note:**

> It's more introspective than anything, a vague insignificant moment or thought. I love Jane's perspective a lot.


End file.
